Government Position
by Diocletian
Summary: Harry may not know what Ron does for a living, but he's not the only one who doesn't. A member of a top secret branch of wizards working for the Muggle government, Ron finds it hard to deal sometimes.


_Author's Notes: I don't own Ron Weasley or Hermione, but I DO own Jasper Pardon and the Consultants, so if you want to use them, please ask. I can hold a helluva grudge, I warn you._

_Anyhow, this is from the same universe as Tea & the Offer, but you don't have to read that first if you don't want to. I want to say that this was inspired when IsisRose asked if Ron actually did sell vacuums for a living, but I'd be lying because this idea was already in my head when she asked. Enjoy!

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**Government Position**

**_By Diocletian

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It had been a little less than five years ago that he had met Rufus Scrimgeour. That he'd been told that many of his citizens were at war. A war he didn't and probably would never understand, and which he couldn't defend himself or most of his voters against. Fudge and Scrimgeour would pop into his office occasionally, keep him appraised of the barest details, and leave again. People were dying and disappearing, buildings and properties were being demolished, and he was left to try and explain it all to those who weren't fortunate enough to be allowed knowledge of the magical world they co-existed with. The Prime Minister was not fond of visits from Fudge or Scrimgeour.

Four years ago, though, something had happened that started making his knowledge of that other world slightly more bearable.

He'd been entertaining the Prime Minister of Australia in the aftermath of an international conference of some sort and he'd accidentally let something slip. Well, with everything that was on his mind, day in and day out, all-day, everyday, it had been bound to happen sooner or later. Frankly, he was surprised it hadn't been sooner.

The two men had been discussing economic growth and the strange pattern in industry booms when he had made some throw-away comment about all the trouble being brought about by "this ridiculous Voldemort nonsense". The Australian Prime Minister had stopped walking and when, upon noticing this, the British Prime Minister had studied him closely, he saw that the other man had tensed up. "What is it?"

The other man had given him a wary look and quietly asked, "How much exactly do you know about Voldemort?"

The Prime Minister had been shell-shocked, to say the least. After assuring each other that neither one of them was in fact a wizard himself, the two world leaders had scurried off to a private table in the conference hall dining area and held a whispered conversation. They did their best to keep from being overheard by the various government aides ever-so-helpfully following the two of them around, who were unsuccessfully trying not to appear like they were actually following them around. The two very non-magical men told each other of the Ministers for Magic who had appeared in their respective offices, going on about things they didn't understand, such as Quidditch World Cups supposedly taking place in the deserted outback the next year and threats made by Death Eaters (whatever THEY were) about blowing up the Old Bailey. They agreed the political climate in England, or anywhere else for that matter, would be much easier to navigate with a better understanding of the magical world.

"What about that secretary of yours?" The Australian Prime Minister had questioned after a while. "You said he works for the other Ministry. What sort of things has he told you?"

"Shacklebolt? Not a damn thing. Anytime I ask, he says that Fudge or that other Minister will keep me informed of anything I really need to know." The British Prime Minister snorted. "It's no wonder the man's doing so well working in politics, being able to spout unhelpful, yet thoroughly diplomatic shite like that at the drop of a hat."

The Australian Prime Minister looked thoughtful for a while. "Did his resume check out?" he asked after a few moments.

The British Prime Minister frowned as he tried to remember. "I don't know. Chances are that I didn't actually see it myself. Some aide probably recommended him and slipped the application onto the pile on my desk. I just don't have time to read it _all_." The other man nodded in understanding. "It's still on file in the office, though. Give me just a moment." He pulled out a cellular phone and dialed up one of the senior interns who worked on his personal staff.

The phone rang twice before a chirpy voice picked up. "Hello?"

From lots of experience with the press, the Prime Minister knew that, if you were actually smiling, your voice generally came out sounding that much friendlier, even over the phone. "Beatrice? This is the Prime Minister. I have a favour to ask you."

"Oh, hello sir!" Her voice was flustered now. "How is your conference going?"

The Prime Minister sighed. "It was fine, Beatrice. Now, would you please do something for me?"

"Of course, sir!"

"Could you get on one of the office computers and look up an application record for me?"

"Sure, sir. Give me just a few minutes."

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That had been the start of it. Sort of. Shacklebolt's application was still on file, but there was almost no helpful information on it. His references did check out: even though nobody he spoke to seemed to have any personal recollections of the man, he was on their records as having been a stellar employee. The Prime Minister didn't doubt that, as the records had probably been planted by the Ministry of Magic. 

After a couple of fruitless weeks spent researching the man's background, the Prime Minister realized that he would have to go to more extreme measures. He had a bit of a word with the head of MI-6 and arranged for one of their junior agents to tail Shacklebolt for a time.

A month later, the junior agent, a young man with the unfortunate name of Herman Pretty, was waiting in his office when he came back from a meeting. Startled, the Prime Minister quickly closed the door behind him and walked over to his desk. He gestured to Pretty, who had risen when he entered the room, to sit back down as he took his own seat. Trying not to seem too excited, he asked, "Well?"

Pretty shifted uncomfortably and looked vaguely sheepish. "He said he knew he was being followed about halfway through the third day." The Prime Minister leaned back in his chair, rolling his eyes. It figured.

"Did he say anything helpful, anything at all?"

Pretty blushed, shrugging. "He gave me a few tips about following a perp _without_ being detected. Oh!" He seemed to remember something suddenly and reached into the pocket of his brown dress slacks, pulling out a now-slightly crumpled square of paper. "He told me to give you this and to please stop sending people to follow him because it's starting to distract him from making sure he isn't being followed by someone else who may actually matter."

"How diplomatic of him," the Prime Minister muttered, scowling. He took the paper from Pretty's hand, unfolding it. It only took a moment to read the whole thing. A name, an address, and a brief note about the person being a former co-worker of Shacklebolt's who might be willing to help the Prime Minister out with a few of his issues. "Hmm…"

It took him a second to remember that Pretty was still waiting for some sort of response from him, so he looked up, met the man's eyes and nodded to him. "Thank you very much, Agent Pretty. You may return to your superiors and inform that your mission has been completed successfully."

Pretty stood and nodded back to him. He then turned and silently left the office, closing the door as he went. The Prime Minister got up and also went to the door, locking it, before returning to his desk to peruse the note again. Going over the name and address again, he memorized both and then went digging through his desk for the gold-plated lighter his brother-in-law had given him last Christmas. Shame he'd given up smoking several years ago. It was considered bad for his public image, so his advisors had strongly suggested he rid himself of the habit. In any case, he'd kept the lighter, if only to remind himself how much he detested his sister's husband, and it was useful now. Flicking it open, he held Shacklebolt's note over the small flame until the entire thing had turned to ash and been dropped in his wastebasket. If Fudge or Scrimgeour were to suddenly appear in his office, he didn't want them to know about the digging he'd been doing into their world. Shacklebolt, he figured, would keep his mouth shut about it, if only this once.

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Jasper Pardon, the man Shacklebolt had recommended to him, was exactly the sort of person the Prime Minister had been looking for. He was a self-proclaimed Ministry malcontent and an ex-Auror, which meant, as he explained patiently, that he'd fought dark wizards for a living. He'd resigned in protest of the Ministry of Magic's decision not to follow through with Someone Weasley's Muggle Protection Act. Pardon was a muggleborn wizard himself, understood both the magical world and the normal one, and was only too willing to help the Prime Minister out with anything he wanted. 

A couple of months after the Prime Minister began seeing Pardon, he offered the wizard an official government position as a paid consultant on all problems magical (though he left the last part out of the paperwork), which the unemployed man accepted enthusiastically. Shortly after that, the Australian Prime Minister, whom the British Prime Minister had kept in close contact with since their discovery about each other, called him up and asked if perhaps Pardon would like a paid trip to Australia for a few weeks to help him out with a few problems he suspected had originated in the magical world. Nobody knew Pardon down there, and with that AND his wizarding knowledge to his advantage, it hadn't been much trouble for him to deal with it.

It had started with Pardon suggesting a few other people the respective Prime Ministers might be interested in hiring as magic "consultants", in both Australia and England. And slowly, over the course of four years and with the tactfully acquired knowledge that the leaders of several other countries were also aware of the wizarding world, the whole operation had expanded more than the Prime Minister could have ever hoped for.

The multi-national Consultants were now a self-organized group of witches and wizards who traveled around the world keeping magical problems restricted to the magical world and away from muggles, using any means they deemed necessary. So long as they didn't use any of the more extreme of those means in their own home countries, they were given diplomatic immunity, courtesy of the top secret status gifted them by the muggle government.

Also, due to a nasty incident in northern Australia about 15 months after the conception of the whole idea, each Consultant was given a code name upon their entrance into the organization. They were told that, any time they left home on duty, they were to use this name and perhaps another fake name that had been assigned to go with it, and there were no exceptions. Even the Prime Minister only knew about three of his British Consultants' birth names, and that was including Pardon. They used the names around each other for their own protection: from their enemies, of which there were many, and especially from their own wizarding world governments. Rufus Scrimgeour, for one, would not be pleased with the arrangements the Prime Minister had made behind his back with some of his more unhappy citizens.

The man standing in his office currently was one of those who had joined sometime after the Australian identity incident and the Prime Minister therefore knew him only as Stonefish.

"I managed to destroy the evidence and apparate away before the muggle authorities arrived, so as far as they can tell it was just a few errant teenagers breaking into an abandoned warehouse for fun," the young man was explaining. The Prime Minister nodded to himself, satisfied at another job well done by the now-familiar Consultant.

"From the sounds of it, you've done a very good job, Stonefish," he commented. The man's blue eyes twinkled slightly before he ducked his head to hide the slight smile that had appeared on his face at the compliment. His freckles had thickened in the sun while he'd been in Hong Kong, the Prime Minister observed, and his red hair had gained a noticeable golden sheen. "I'll make sure Cone Shell adds a bit of a bonus to your pay next week."

Recognizing the dismissal, Stonefish nodded politely, saying, "Thank you, sir. It was no problem." Then he turned around and headed to the bookshelf at the side of the office. He grabbed a large volume of the collected stories of Sherlock Holmes, pulled it down and flipped it open. From the hollowed-out inside, he extracted a tin, which he opened and poured a small handful of floo powder from before replacing inside the book. Then he returned the whole thing to its "hiding" place on the bookshelf. Finally, he turned to the nearby fireplace, threw down his handful of powder, watched as the flames turned green, and stepped into the fire. He glanced one last time at the Prime Minister, who had never yet been able to look away, no matter how often he saw it happen, and called, "Birchgrove Cottage!" before promptly vanishing.

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Inside a large and quite well-furnished cottage in Cornwall, Ronald Weasley stumbled out of his living room fireplace. He wiped the worst of the soot off his clothes and kicked off his shoes, throwing them in the vague direction of the front hallway. He padded to the kitchen in his socks, noting the time on the clock over the stove and mentally trying to adjust his body to the time change from Hong Kong. 

He went to the sink and turned on the taps to wash his hands. As he dried them on a clean dish towel, he discovered about a dozen letters that had been left just inside the small window he always left about a foot open, so that any owls that wanted to could leave their post there while he was gone. They weren't supposed to be able to find him while he was on a mission, so there were usually at least a few. The pile invariably included at least two letters from his mother telling him how very nice it would be if he were to take a job that kept him a little closer to home, one from whichever of his brothers his parents had guilted into it this time saying the same thing, and one from Hermione, asking how things were.

Generally, he wrote out a vague sort of "I'm fine, the job's great, I love being able to see so many places and meet new people and still get paid for it" response, copied it out several times and sent one out to everybody who had written while he was gone. Sometimes, though, he wished he could talk about it in more detail, but it had been drilled into his head a long time ago that talking about the job too much would very soon mean he didn't have that job anymore. There'd probably be a strong Obliviate added in, too.

Ron felt the smile he'd been wearing and the happiness he'd been feeling as a result of a successful mission dissipate slightly as he thought about the distance that had slowly but surely developed between himself and his friends and family since he'd taken this job on two years before. But he was working to build a better world for everyone: himself, them, and people like Hermione's family who didn't even know any better. If a bit of estrangement resulted, well… it wasn't as though he hadn't been warned. But the rewards were so much more important than missing the occasional dinner at the Burrow that he hardly ever thought about it.

He grabbed a random envelope from mid-way through the pile. Looking at the familiar writing on the front ("Ron Weasley, Birchgrove Cottage, Cornwall"), he could tell it was from Hermione. Rolling his eyes and grinning ruefully to himself, he was prepared for another long letter about how he really should keep in touch better. But when he ripped the envelope open, he found a blue and orange birthday card instead.

On the outside, there was the average dancing animal holding streamers and balloons. But as he opened it, his breath caught in his throat. Inside, there was a ticket to a Quidditch match, Chudley Cannons versus Falmouth Falcons. It was dated for the day before yesterday, his 21st birthday, which he'd forgotten about completely until that moment. Any lingering cheer he'd been feeling disappeared as he read the note Hermione had scribbled inside.

"Harry and I will both be at the match. I really hope you can make it because, as you well know, I'm not much for Quidditch on my own and you are about the only person who can keep me entertained at these things. If you're busy at work, that's okay, of course, but we'll miss you. Happy Birthday!"

And, in smaller letters, scrunched together near the bottom as though she'd added it later and was half-hoping Ron wouldn't be able to read it, there was a post-script.

"P.S. I miss you terribly, Ron. Please come."

Ron closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, crushing the useless ticket in his hand. 'What I do is important for everybody,' he told himself for the thousandth time. 'I do it for them. It IS worth it.'

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